


Issues With The Sound

by Omorka



Category: Misfits of Science, Still Crazy (1998)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-24
Updated: 2010-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-14 01:22:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/143802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omorka/pseuds/Omorka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A British manager and promoter offers Johnny B a chance at a comeback tour; he enlists his friends to help with the inevitable equipment issues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Issues With The Sound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zortified (james)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/james/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide; have a treat! This is a little crackish, especially with the crossover with a fandom you probably aren't familiar with (and a reference to a third that I suspect you do know ;) ), but I hope the spirit of the Misfits of Science comes through!

“A comeback concert?” Billy shifted the phone closer to his ear; the static was, as usual, drowning out the voice on the other end. “Really? Who’s the promoter?”

“Some chick from England you’ve never heard of,” crackled the receiver. “The thing is, this is my big chance to get back in the public eye.”

“I thought you were trying to stay _out_ of the public eye,” Billy answered. “What with the whole hermit-on-the-mountain thing. Besides, you know what’ll happen if you get on a stage with all the lights, amplifiers, wiring, fuses -”

“I know, I know,” Johnny interrupted, “but she says she’s worked with bands with special electrical needs before. And she can get some pyros, do a lot of spark showers and stuff; if we can work out in rehearsal when I can cut loose a little, it’ll look like it’s all part of the show.” There was a long pause filled with static. “Also, I’m getting a little tight on cash.”

Dr. Hayes leaned against the wall and groaned. “I should have figured. You know no one ever makes money on a tour, right?”

“Tell me about it. We’ll be lucky if we break even, counting the effects. But I get paid an advance, and it should whip up album sales.” There was a creak as Johnny switched hands. “If I’m ever going to get enough to put together a studio that can handle my wattage, I need a cash influx, man.”

Billy drummed his fingers against the edge of his desk. “So - are you telling me that you’ve already said yes, and you want us to help you figure out how to make it safe, or are you asking if I think it’s a good idea?”

“I gave them a tentative yes and said I needed to check that my calendar was clear for all the tour dates,” came the reply. “I know you’re not gonna think it’s a good idea. What I need to know is, do you think it’s _possible_?”

Billy ran one hand down his face. “You’re going to do this even if we say no, aren’t you?”

“Yeah, probably.”

“Let me talk to El and get back to you.”

\---

“So basically, it’s a combination of a big-ass mike stand and a lightning rod,” Johnny said, eyeing the steel pole stuck through the stage.

“It’ll only be a solution for outdoor shows,” El admitted, “but it looked like over eighty percent of the confirmed dates were at ‘weather permitting’ sites.”  
“Yeah, that bugged me a little when I saw the roster.” Johnny picked up his guitar and strummed it experimentally; sparks danced under his fingers. “But it kind of makes sense for all the pyrotechnic effects - they’re safer outside.” A spark jumped the gap from the tuning pegs to the mike stand. “I guess I am, too.”

“You’re not exactly safe at any time,” Billy reminded him. “Have you thought about the issues with crowds getting too close to the stage? What if you get stage-divers?”

“I don’t attract that kind of crowd,” Johnny muttered.

El glanced at the other instruments. “Who’s your backing band?”

Johnny laughed. “That’s the weird thing. The promoter, what’s her name, Miss Knowles, said the band she usually works with would back up me and the other act, the Irish singer.” He looped the guitar strap back over his head and straightened his hair as he set his prized instrument carefully on its stand. “It’s the chick’s first American tour; the other guys were here once back in the ‘70s. I got the impression it didn’t go so well.”

El blinked. “Wait, I thought they were glam metal or something. Aren’t you more of a roots-rock sort of sound?”

Billy glanced at him sideways. “Since when do you know this much about music?”

“Oh, give me a break,” El growled. “I can read the promoter’s ads, at least.”

“They’re sort of arena-rock, a little prog-ish,” Johnny admitted. “I heard their last rehearsal, and they’re not bad. I think the bassist and the drummer can keep up, and that’s really all I need for my set.” He glanced across the stage. “If I were the chick, though, I’d worry - their keyboardist plays straight-up organ most of the time.”

“I’ll be fine,” crooned a low, soothing voice with a lilt. “I require minimal accompaniment.”

A woman almost as tall as El in her four-inch stage heels, with long, black hair that nearly reached her thighs and a tight white dress that ended at about the same place, glided out onto the stage. She smiled, as if the presence of three men she barely knew pleased her deeply. “Mr. Bukowski, who are your friends?” she purred.

Billy nearly stumbled over his feet getting over to meet her. “Hi, I’m Dr. William Hayes,” he started, then choked on his tongue.

“Charmed,” she said, extending a long, pale hand and shaking his once. “And you?” She turned to El and looked him directly in the eyes. It was a novel experience.

“Dr. Elvin Lincoln.” He managed not to stammer. “I’m afraid you have us at a disadvantage, ma’am.”

“I usually do.” She smiled; it was thin-lipped and toothless, and somehow made her look slightly less attractive. El was suddenly aware that he’d been holding his breath, and let it out as she shook his hand. “I’m Llyria.”

“Thought you read the ads, man,” Billy whispered.

She looked down at him and dimpled. “And it’s very nice of you both to worry about my stage arrangements while you’re working out your technical issues, but I’m sure as long as the vocal microphone is in good working order, I’ll be fine.” She drew two slips of paper from an invisible pocket of the dress. “Just in case Mr. Bukowski has not invited you to our L.A. show, let me offer you a pair of free passes.”

“They’re already on the guest list,” Johnny responded, frowning.

“Ah, then I hope you will be there,” she smiled, turning away. “I will - enjoy having your energy present, as I believe you say here in the States?”

She breezed off into the wings. Billy’s breathing slowly returned to normal. “Holy hell,” he gulped, “if half that presence comes across on the record I don’t know why she isn’t an international hit already. What’s she doing hanging around with has-beens?”

Johnny crackled dangerously, and Billy backed up a step. “Um, sorry. What I meant was -”

“I know what you meant.” Johnny glowered at him. “Just because I haven’t had a single in two years - anyway, something about her isn’t quite right. I don’t like her vibes, you know?”

El replayed the short conversation in memory. “She looks like she’s had too much plastic surgery,” he said slowly. “That too-tight look around the eyes. But I didn’t see any actual surgical marks.”

“If the surgeon was any good,” Billy pointed out, “you wouldn’t be able to. And yeah, she did feel like she was older than she looked, somehow.”

Johnny shrugged, hands wide. “I don’t have to like her. I don’t even have to be on stage with her; I just have to tour with her.” He bit his lip. “The weird thing is, I can’t tell if she’s coming on to me, or if she just relates to all guys like that.”

“My bet’s on the latter,” El added. “I mean, she sort of vamped all of us for a few moments.”

“Speak for yourself,” Billy grinned, “I think she loves me.”

“Dream on,” the other two groaned in unison.

\---

“Karen, quit fidgeting, it’ll be fine,” the grey-maned lead vocalist reassured the promoter over the ruckus from the speaker stacks.

The lead guitarist tucked in his t-shirt for the fifth time and glanced up at the slowly gathering clouds. “It never does this in California. Why does it _always_ rain on you guys?”

“God doesn’t like us, I keep telling you,” the roadie replied.

A pair of lightning bolts, one fake, one quite real, shot off the stage and skyward; the crowd roared its approval. A guitar riff raced down two octaves like a zipper into a crashing power chord; the drummer tossed his sticks into the air. Johnny grabbed the mike. “All right, L.A., I’m Johnny B, this is Strange Fruit; stick around, because they’re gonna rock your socks off later tonight, right after Llyria! I love you! Good night!”

“He really knows how to work a crowd,” El noted, fingering his backstage pass.

The promoter, Karen, nodded. “He’s got chops. And he and Beano seem to be getting along great.”

“Getting along like beans on toast,” sniggered the guitarist. El and Billy exchanged a shrug.

Johnny came off the stage like a rocket, and the roadie slipped behind him. “Wow! That was great! It sounded good from up here - how was it out in the audience?”

“Loud,” Billy half-shouted back, “but good.”

“It’s - I can’t describe it,” Johnny said, grabbing them each by an arm. “Just the feeling of being in front of an audience, hearing them sing along, watching them dance - it’s powerful, man.”

Billy tapped one finger next to an eye. Grinning, Johnny tilted his sunglasses up just slightly. The glow was almost as bright as one of the stage lights.

“And now,” the MC announced, “the inimitable lyrical stylings of County Cork’s favorite songstress - Llyria!”

“Already?” Johnny turned half-around. “It takes longer than that to just unplug my stuff, much less change the set.”

The crowd applauded enthusiastically as the tall, obsidian-haired chanteuse strode onto the stage in what looked to El like the same white dress. She bowed twice, then stepped to the mike and opened her mouth.

“Wait, there’s no accompaniment -” Johnny started, then was struck dumb as the first notes rang through the speakers.

It was like the howling of wolves and the trilling dirge of cicadas. It was the crashing of waves and the rushing of rapids. It was the sighing of the wind between birch branches in winter and the full-throttled scream of hurricane winds in a tropical summer. It was the sound of the moon and the stars, and Billy thought his heart was going to leap out through his mouth and burst right there on the stage next to her.

Very slowly, from miles away, the drummer said flatly, “Well, that isn’t normal, is it.”

“N-n-not what she s-sounded like in rehearsal,” Johnny gasped back.

El tried to reply and couldn’t; he was frozen in place. From his vantage point, it looked like the same was true of everyone except the drummer. It was terribly hard to focus on them; his eyes wanted to return to her, to the source of that awesome and terrible sound . . . .

“Banshee,” gasped the roadie.

“What? Seriously? Those don’t even exist,” Beano snorted.

“There are lots of things in L.A. th-that aren’t supposed to exist,” Johnny said, struggling against his own feet. He managed to lurch one step towards the stage.

A faint glowing mist appeared in front of Billy’s face and began to stream towards Llyria. A similar nimbus flowed towards her from the audience; her skin was beginning to shine with unearthly light. Her hair undulated behind her, as if it were caught in the gleaming current; her eyes remained fixed on the audience as her pupils disappeared into pools of pearlescent white. The strange ululation continued.

“Hm. Well, that ain’t natural. Suppose we should try and stop her,” said the drummer, grabbing Johnny by the wrist and hauling him forward; he started only slightly at the static shock.

The contact seemed to break the tentative hold she had on the rocker. “What should we do, though?” he stage-whispered over the overwhelming sound.

Beano shrugged and pitched one of his drumsticks at her head. Without looking, she reached out one hand; the drumstick bounced off of something invisible and ricocheted off into the audience. “Apparently not that.”

Johnny grabbed a loop of cable on the stage floor. “Maybe we can lasso her?”

“Very cowboys-and-Indians! I like it,” Beano pronounced, taking one end from him. They darted forward; she grabbed the microphone, kicked with one foot, and rose several feet into the air, buoyed on the flood of shining fog that thickened around her.

“Oh, great,” the drummer groaned. “How do we get her down from there? Your rope tricks that good?”

Johnny shook his head. “Nope. I guess I gotta bring out the big guns.”

“The what?” Beano asked, then gaped as crackling light of his own surrounded Johnny’s hands. A lightning bolt streaked from his fingers; Llyria attempted to dodge and partially succeeded, but the half-impact sent her spinning, and the otherworldy note wavered.

“No, no,” Beano shouted, “you had it right with the roping idea. Hit her with that and then reel her in.”

“You’re taking this awfully well,” Johnny noted. “Wait, you mean a continuous current instead of a single discharge?”

“I dunno, I failed my science O-levels. Sounds right, though.”

Johnny shook his head. “Well, let’s give it a shot. Might need more juice, though.” He looped his foot through a coil of power cable and aimed again, his hands glowing white.

The shot was good, and she didn’t react at all like a human hit by that many volts should; she started _unfolding_ , her face and limbs lengthening, her ears sweeping back -

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Beano muttered. “Hughie was right.”

The mist swirled, shimmered, and stopped flowing as the banshee struggled against the crackling electrical discharge. Her mouth fluttered, and the eerie tone warbled and wavered. El blinked, tried to move, and immediately found himself face-down on the edge of the stage.

Johnny went to one knee. “I can’t hold her for much longer, man. Not enough juice in the place.” As if on cue, the lights began to flicker.

The other band’s guitarist surfaced out of his trance and managed not to fall over, despite his legs not quite working either. He grabbed the MC’s microphone, and shouted in a breaking voice, “Ladies and gentlemen, Johnny B!”

The roar from the crowd was earsplitting - and louder than the sidhe-song. Billy grabbed El by the shoulder, hissing “Get up, we’ve got to move.”

“What are we doing?” El climbed to his feet, then regretted having done so that fast.

Billy was searching through the toolbox by the mixing board. “We need something to contain her in before she gets it together enough to start singing again. Man, I wish I’d paid more attention during Dr. Stantz’s guest lecture.”

The roadie jumped to the board. “I’ve cut her mike,” he announced. “You’ll want something made of iron or steel; the Fair Folk can’t tolerate it.”

El reached down, dumped out the contents of the toolbox, and tucked it under one arm. “Got it.”

Karen boggled. “She’ll never fit in there!”

“She’s not actually material,” Billy explained. “She’s essentially a figment of psychokinesis. I’ll explain later,” he finished as Karen eyed him warily.

The crowd was chanting “John-Ny B! John-Ny B!” at deafening levels, and the banshee had stopped trying to sing; bone-white claws sprang from the ends of her fingers, and she swiped at Beano. He dove behind the drum kit. “Hold her!”

“Trying . . .” Johnny’s face was nearly as white as hers. “Never held onto a bolt for this long before.” His hands vibrated with the effort.

A bulb burst somewhere above the crowd, and the lights went out. “John-Ny B!”

El charged onto the stage as if he were carrying a football. “Hang on!”

“Right under her!” Billy shouted, following him and veering to the side. “Go, go, go!”

El went to one knee and slid, toolbox wide open. “It’s out! Drop her in here!”

Arms shaking, Johnny slowly lowered his hands towards the open box. “It hurts . . .”

“You got it, hurry!” Beano started to pound him on the back, then thought better of it at the last second.

Johnny brought his hands down, hard. The blur of white and black dropped squarely into the toolbox; El snapped the lid shut and latched it. “Got her,” he gasped.

The crowd sprang to its feet as one, roaring. Beano grabbed Johnny by the shoulders and hauled him to his feet; the noise redoubled. Johnny waved feebly, and managed to sketch a small bow before being led off propped between Billy and the drummer.

“We’re going to need another third act for the tour,” Karen said, still not quite sure what she’d just seen.

“And we’re taking this right back to the lab,” El said firmly, wrapping a spare cable tightly around the toolbox.

“And I have to make a phone call,” Billy said, rushing off towards the green room.

The lead vocalist for Strange Fruit shook his head slowly. “Never thought I’d see a show of ours _rescued_ by lightning,” he mumbled.

The bassist shrugged. “Stranger things have happened to us.” He blinked as the lights came back on. “Tough act to follow, though. A little change-up to keep it high-tempo; start with ‘All Over The World’ - five minutes, get ready, mates.”

Johnny nodded as he collapsed into a folding chair. “Right on, man. The show must go on.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Beano grinned. “Need another pair of sticks, though. Wonder where the other one got to?”

Johnny stared up into the rigging. “If the record company doesn’t call me after this,” he mused, “I need to fire my agent.”

El scooped him up into a standing position with his free hand. “Let’s get you away from fuses and lightboxes for a while, too.”

“Fine with me.” Johnny grinned. “But - great crowd. Great show. Man, what a _charge!_ ”


End file.
